


Gala at the God's Eye (Scandal Westeros - Episode Four)

by SkinnyBlackGirl



Series: Scandal: Westeros [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Scandal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Infidelity, Modern Westeros, Multi, Politics, R Plus L Equals J, Rare Pairings, Scandal-Westeros, Sex, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:41:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25619788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinnyBlackGirl/pseuds/SkinnyBlackGirl
Summary: When all of the stars in Westeros high society gather for an annual gala, they're in a room full of elegant gowns, expensive drinks, mummer's farces, simmering conflicts, and dirty little secrets.Councilman Robb Stark can't keep his mind off of famous fixer Sarella Sand—too bad he's at the gala with his fiancee, Roslin Frey. After years away from Westeros, Lyanna Stark is back as the Republic's newly-appointed Foreign Affairs minister, but old memories re-surface, reminding her of a secret she's been keeping for 33 years. Margaery Tyrell-Baratheon is ready to kick off her husband Renly's campaign for Prime Minister, but a new threat could poke a hole in their picture-perfect image. Sansa Stark-Baratheon seeks a break from her bickering in-laws and her husband's ugly temper, in hopes of keeping an ugly secret about her marriage. And Jon Snow's suspicions about his mother's odd behavior are exacerbated by an awkward exchange with a stranger in a restroom.If you've ever watched "Scandal," this is a "state dinner" setting in a modern-day Westeros. One-shot
Relationships: Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark, Nymeria Sand/Jon Snow, Renly Baratheon/Margaery Tyrell, Roslin Frey/Robb Stark, Sarella Sand/Robb Stark
Series: Scandal: Westeros [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623448
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	Gala at the God's Eye (Scandal Westeros - Episode Four)

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This story has a lot of small details that will only make sense if you've read the previous Scandal-Westeros stories. Be on the lookout for some fun deep cuts, including callbacks to previous episode plots and hints of drama to come.

“How far does her leg go up?” Robb Stark wonders, eyes fixed on the silver chain around Sarella Sand’s ankle. _His_ chain. 

In a party full of Westeros’s elite, she stands out, even in a simple form-fitting black gown. Watching her sit across the room, the slit up the side of her dress more apparent with her legs crossed, he imagines idly rubbing the soft skin on her thigh. His hands have a mind of their own when it comes to her and whenever he’s in striking distance, they crave the feel of her, smooth and buttery, beneath his fingertips. He wants to get her in a quiet corner, caress her bare leg from thigh to ankle, bend that leg over his shoulder and sink deep into her velvety folds. He wants that Valyrian steel anklet where he can see it; kiss, lick and bite around it while he claims her body over and over again until she puts them out of their collective misery and sucks him in with one of her soul-stealing, tidal wave orgasms. 

Great. Now he’s hard. In the middle of the Republic’s Annual Gala.

He’s been coming to these things since he was a student at the Military Academy, often accompanying his mother after his father’s passing. Every year, the political class gathers in a ballroom outside of the Capitol at Harrenhal under the guise of celebrating the end of monarchical rule and the birth of Westeros as a republic ruled by citizen-elected officials. 

In reality, it’s an excuse for rich people to dress up, congratulate themselves, and gossip like old fish wives. Another piece of political performance art he’s required to participate in these days. 

This year’s gala takes place at the Orton Tower on the God’s Eye. The gaudy high-rise has a massive ballroom on its 45th floor with floor-to-ceiling windows. On a clear day, one can see as far as the Eyrie to the north and the Blackwater to the south.

Under different circumstances, Robb would be more inclined to enjoy the view. Instead, he’s surrounded by his mother and her family: his Uncle Edmure and his wife, Liane Vance-Tully; his Uncle Brynden who (as always) has shown up stag; his mother and his fiancee, Roslin. Meanwhile, the other Starks are scattered across the room; Sansa with her Lannister in-laws, his Aunt Lyanna at the main table with the rest of the cabinet, and Jon at Sarella’s table. 

Where Robb wishes he was. 

Next to him, his fiancee is in deep conversation with his Uncle Edmure, as polite and charming as a politician can expect his future wife to be. Her porcelain skin and soft features make her look younger than her twenty-nine years and her long, thick hair falls in chestnut waves down her back. In another life, one where he never met Sarella Sand, Robb could love Roslin Frey. She’s beautiful, a talented and ambitious journalist, kind and funny; understands the challenges of public life, and is willing to face them pragmatically. If he _has_ to do this political marriage bullshit, she’s as good a partner as any. 

Roslin’s just not... _her._

The teak-skinned, onyx-eyed goddess who captured his heart three years ago and never let it go. The woman currently driving him insane as he contemplates how he can sneak away from his mother, fiancee, and all of Westeros’s dignitaries to fuck her at one of the biggest events of the year. 

Never mind that he’s a well-known Councilman. Or that he’s engaged. Apparently, the woman was born to shred his ideas of honor and propriety. 

A delicate hand on Robb’s leg jolts him out of his thoughts. 

“We’re looking at next May,” Roslin says. “But we’re still working out the venue. _Someone_ wants to get married in Winterfell even though the weather will be much better at the Twins.” 

Ah. They’re discussing the wedding. He’s allowed Roslin to pretty much have her way, leaving his mother to manage the day-to-day details that he can’t be bothered with. He’s only put his foot down about the location. He doesn’t care how pretty the view is at the Frey estate; Roslin’s grandfather is a right prick. He’d sooner stab himself in the gut than be married in that man’s home. 

He pulls his fiancee’s hand out of his lap (away from his Sarella-induced erection) and kisses it before placing it on the table. “My love forgets that she’s marrying a Northman,” he says with a smile. “You’ll learn to live with the cold eventually.” 

“Or you could run for Prime Minister and keep your wife in the comfortable climate to which she is accustomed,” Roslin coos, giving the girl-next-door face that makes her one of Westeros's favorite news anchors.

It’s cute. He imagines it would be effective on an older man who’s into the whole “daddy” thing. “I’ve got a ways to go to the PM’s office.” 

“Always so modest,” Roslin chides, lifting her wine glass. “Your preliminary polling numbers look good, Robb.” 

He wants to discuss this about as much as he wants to discuss the wedding. He just won re-election for his seat in the People’s Council. The best way to secure his political future is a successful second-term; not obsessing over poll data. That’s what Theon and Wyman are for. 

“Flattery won’t get you a wedding at the Twins, love,” he says, rising from his seat with an eye on Sarella’s table, where a tall, sandy-haired man looms over her seat. 

_Who in the bloody hell is that?_

Buttoning his tuxedo jacket, Robb bends down to kiss Roslin’s cheek. “Be right back. Going to chat with Jon for a bit.”

_And figure out how to get this woman alone before I lose my fucking mind._

* * *

Lyanna Stark remembers a gala just like this. 

Thirty-four years ago, at a much smaller, less modern Harrenhal venue. After her Mock World Council team wiped the floor with the other junior diplomats from universities across the Republic. Technically, diplomacy wasn’t a competitive sport, but back then, moderation wasn’t a talent of hers. She’d prepared relentlessly and debated the same way; compelling concessions out of the other teams one-by-one until hers claimed victory. 

She was on a high that night, walking into the ballroom with her brother Benjen, sipping her first legal drink at a formal gathering. She wasn’t such a tomboy that she didn’t enjoy the feel of a well-made gown, especially when it was loose enough to let her move yet still showed off the curves on her athletic body. It was the first time she felt like a woman and when she caught a pair of indigo eyes taking a leisurely perusal over her frame, she felt _all woman_. That one stare did more to her body than any of the tentative kisses, fumbling touches, and eager pumps she’d known in dorm rooms at university ever had. 

But that was thirty-four years ago. 

And she’s Westeros’s newly-confirmed Foreign Affairs Minister. 

It’s still hard to believe. She’d been on the shortlist for the position for years, declining each time because she would not work with Robert Baratheon. 

“She’d rather galavant across the Narrow Sea than join my cabinet.” She’d heard through the grapevine from her friends in Westerosi government. 

He wanted her in his cabinet, alright. Preferably alone with her dress over her head. Even after Jon was born and he cursed her as a “whore for Essosi cock,” his handlers tried to woo her away from her diplomatic posts in Essos. 

Lyanna’s made some romantic missteps in her life, but she counts turning down Robert’s advances thirty-five years ago as one of her smarter decisions; confirmed by the shameful way he behaved while he was in office. There was no love lost between her and Cersei Lannister, but not even _she_ deserved the wringer Robert’s shenanigans put her through. And her poor children. Grown or not, hearing about a new sibling every night on the evening news had to be traumatic. 

How ironic that Robert’s downfall would advance her career.

Not that Randyll Tarly isn’t his own special kind of prick. He didn’t appoint her because he believed she was capable. He just didn’t give a shit about diplomacy; thought of “all that nagging and haggling” as “women’s work.” His advisors told him adding Lyanna to his cabinet would look good, so he did. Convincing him to respect and take her recommendations would be another challenge. 

_“Put a Direwolf and a Huntsman in a cage,_ ” Lyanna explained to her son when she told him she was returning to Westeros to take the job, _“my money’s on the Direwolf.”_

She tries to remember that as she schools her face into a neutral expression. 

No one may have noticed Rickard Karstark’s daughter swooning under that heated indigo stare all those years ago, but now, seated at the head table with the Prime Minister, there are enough eyes on her to make her wonder if anyone caught the hitch in her breath when the band played the opening chords of “Flight of the Dragon,” announcing the arrival of Westeros’s Royal Family. 

She’s seen the man a million times over the years. Shaken hands with him, his wife, and children at several events. Something about tonight, on this particular occasion, pulls her back in time to late-night phone calls, personalized mixtapes, the feel of silken silver locks sliding through her fingers as he—

_Really, Lyanna. You’re too old for this._

She searches for a focal point—anything to keep her from staring where she shouldn’t—and falls on a head of unruly black curls on a lean build, begrudgingly standing with the rest of the attendees in respect for the Royal Family. Dinner hasn’t been served and already, his bow tie hangs loosely around an unbuttoned collar, daring anyone to judge his lack of decorum. 

_It’s too bad Jon hates wearing suits_ , Lyanna thinks, looking at her son. _He reminds me so much of his father when he wears them_. 

_Then again…_

Her eyes go back to the royal procession.

Perhaps her son’s aversion to black-tie attire is for the best.

* * *

If Margaery Tyrell-Baratheon didn’t know her husband so well, she’d want to fuck him tonight.

It wasn’t the Armani tux tailored to perfection on the brawny body he works his ass off to maintain. Not the thick, coal-black hair slicked back just so to show off his clean-shaven face and a jaw that could cut glass. Nor the laughing navy eyes that made her swoon when she was still too young to know better. 

She’s spent too much time with Renly Baratheon to be taken by his looks. 

As soon as they pulled up to the Orton Tower on the God’s Eye, he turned it on, stepping out of the limousine, buttoning his tuxedo jacket, and helping her out of the backseat. Renly was the star, the distinguished People’s Councilman with the movie star looks, but on nights out with the cameras on, he knew to make her the center of his universe.

It was a tough sell to a man whose six-foot, five-inch body could barely contain his ego, but when the world learned that the eldest Baratheon was a philandering alcoholic who used government funds to hide his brood of bastards littered across the Republic and the middle Baratheon led the investigation that got him tossed out of office, their marriage provided the shelter Renly needed to protect him from the damage to his family’s name. 

Nothing sways the public like a fairy tale romance. 

A fairy tale romance between the dashing youngest brother of an old family and the beloved daughter of the Republic’s first female Prime Minister? People ate up every bit; from their early date nights at the hottest restaurants in King’s Landing to their storybook nuptials at Highgarden. 

Next stop: the Prime Minister's office.

Once he was out of the car, Margaery and Renly fell into a routine they could do in their sleep: her revealing one elegant leg, then the other; coming to her feet and relaxing into the palm that he knew to place on the small of her back. Sometimes, he let the cameras catch him whispering a compliment in her ear. Tonight, it was “You look stunning. Emerald is truly your color.” 

He’d said the same a couple of weeks ago when they discussed their respective looks for this evening. When she tried on the low-cut, flared skirt halter dress in emerald green that exposed most of her back and tied at the nape of her neck with a dramatic double-bow, his eyes grew wide with admiration. “That’s the one, Marge.”

The drop diamond earrings from _Lynesse’s_ that he surprised her with that morning sparkled in her ears as they attacked the red carpet with easy smiles and quick replies for the onslaught of flashing cameras and rapid-fire questions. 

_“Margaery! Who are you wearing tonight?!”_

“Alexander McQueen.” 

_“Councilman Baratheon! Where are you on PC Bill 534? Do you think drilling for oil in the North could harm the environment?”_

“I’d like to see environmental protections added to the measure, but I’m willing to hear my colleagues’ arguments on the floor.” 

_“Margaery! Margaery! You’ve been married for two years now. Any talk of starting a family?”_

“We’re... working on it. When the Mother sees fit to bless us with a child, we will welcome the opportunity to grow our family.” 

_“Councilman! Have you spoken with either of your brothers? Any comment on Robert’s scandal and disappearance from public life?”_

Margaery abandoned her press gaggle to join her husband, linking her hand in his. To the cameras, it was a gesture of support. Between the two of them, it was a warning: _Don’t fuck this up._

“I made my feelings clear on Robert’s behavior in office when I joined my colleagues in voting for his removal,” Renly said, sternly. “But as the younger brother of a man going through a difficult time, I pray to the Father that he finds peace and reconciliation with my nieces and nephews, all of whom I’ve begun to develop relationships with. My brothers are stubborn, but they’ll get their issues sorted. My priority is making sure _our_ future children,” he lays it on thick with an adoring glance in her direction, “will have good relationships with _all_ of their cousins.” 

Addressed the ugly truth head-on? Check. Effectively distanced himself from the dirty details of Robert’s exploits and pivoted to their future, priming everyone to see Renly and Margaery Baratheon as the portrait of family values? Check. 

“Well done,” she said once they were alone in the elevator. 

Studying his reflection in the elevator’s mirrored walls with gilded trim, Renly adjusted his bow tie and frowned. “Orton Merrywether’s hotels are so... _gauche_. I know he’s lining the pockets of half the legislature, but I can’t believe they’re having the gala here.” 

“It _does_ have the best view in the Capitol,” Margaery said as she retouched her lipstick. "Are we clear on the game plan tonight?"

"I'm working on early endorsements from Selwyn Tarth and Courtnay Penrose. Think I can talk them into a round of golf with me and Loras next week."

"And I'll schedule lunch with their wives. Make them think they're getting insider gossip by hinting at your run for Prime Minister." She checked the elevator panel and noted they were nearing the 45th floor. "Almost showtime."

Renly pried himself away from his reflection to take her hand before the elevator doors opened. "Our audience awaits. Let's show them what a perfect First Couple we'll make."

Watching Renly Baratheon work a room is poetry in motion. When she takes breaks from her own conversations, she sees him laughing his hearty laugh with a group of Reachmen, holding a circle of Stormlanders captive, making the old women at the Westeros Women’s League table blush… 

He is so damned good at this. 

Robert was a charmer in his heyday, but his was a bull-in-the-china shop, overgrown frat boy charisma backed up by military heroics. Renly glides through a room, appearing effortless until you take a discriminating look at him. He keeps a beer bottle in his hand all night as a prop, barely sipping it because he abhors drunkenness; he innocently flirts with women yet his eyes never heat with desire for any of them; he slaps backs and shakes hands, but whips out hand sanitizer when he thinks no one’s watching.

He’s a brilliant performer. She couldn’t have picked a better partner if she built one from scratch. 

_If you’d built a partner from scratch, Marge, you would have created one that could occasionally give you a proper fu—_

Someone touches her elbow before she can finish her thought. She almost asks Renly how he got across the room so quickly and why he changed suits until she realizes she’s looking at one of Robert’s bastards. 

_Seven hells_ , _Baratheon genes run true._

He has the height, the inky hair— though he wears his shorter than Renly’s—and deep blue eyes. It’s the ears that really give him away; his are a bit large. “My apologies,” he says, with a smile that looks startlingly like her husband’s. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. But I saw you standing here and realized we haven’t officially met.” 

_Which one is this?_ She scrolls her mind to remember which of Robert’s byblows can afford a ticket to the Republic’s Gala. _The investment banker_. “Edric, right?”

Nodding, he offers a large hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Aunt Margaery.” 

“Please. Margaery is fine,” she says, noting how firmly he takes her hand in his. “Don’t tell me Renly makes you call him ‘Uncle.’ You appear a little old for that.” He can’t be much younger than her. Four, five years, maybe? She’ll have to look it up later. 

“He hasn’t asked me to stop,” Edric counters, still smiling. “Truthfully, I think he uses our age difference to soothe his ego when I beat him in one-on-one.” 

“Competitiveness. Another mark of the Stag. That must be why you’re so successful.” 

"I’m blessed to make a good living,” he says. “I haven't scratched the surface on success yet."

She wonders what he means by that. Does he have political ambitions? His eye on a Baratheon inheritance? "You sound like a man the world should look out for, Edric Storm."

He nods, the hint of a smirk forming on one side of his mouth. "That's the goal." 

“I see you’ve met my carbon copy,” Renly approaches from behind her, laying a possessive hand on the small of her back. “Nice tux, Nephew. Hugo Boss?” 

Edric tilts his head, confused for a moment. “Ralph Lauren, I believe. I’m afraid I’m not well-versed in fashion. I employed a stylist for tonight.” 

“Sound investment. Once you’ve cleared your first 100 million, I’ll introduce you to my guy at _Lynesse’s_. I get first dibs on all of the exclusive imports from Braavos and Myr.” 

Stepping back, Edric assesses the couple’s attire. “I must admit, you’re the most dashing couple here tonight. That’s a lovely dress, Margaery.” 

The look in Edric’s eyes is _almost_ familiar, mirroring the admiration she gets from Renly when he thinks she’s well-dressed. Except… 

Something flickers in Edric’s gaze that she’s never seen in her husband’s. 

Heat. 

Attraction. 

She’s about to bite her lip when she remembers herself. 

_No_ , she chides herself before thanking Edric for the compliment. She’s letting long-neglected regions of her body override her good sense. _He’s just being polite._

“Indeed,” Renly says, appreciative but cool. “I’m the luckiest man in Westeros. Now if you don’t mind, a few members of the Women’s League would like a word with my wife. But I’ll find you again later tonight? We’ll have a drink before we leave.” 

“Of course, Uncle. It was a pleasure to finally meet you, Margaery.” 

“You as well, Edric. If your business ever brings you to the Reach, we’d love to have you over for dinner sometime.” 

Renly waits until they’re well out of Edric’s earshot to lean down and whisper in her ear. “Be careful with that one, love.” 

“I was actually going to tell you the same thing,” she responds. “He's ambitious. We should keep an eye on him.” 

“I am. I’m particularly interested in how he kept his eyes on you.” 

Margaery stops in her tracks, leaning away to look Renly in the eye. “Excuse me?” she says through a tight smile. 

“Has something finally escaped my clever wife’s notice? My nephew has a crush.” 

She doesn’t know why the accusation bothers her. Men have been attracted to her since she first grew breasts at fourteen. Yet, something in Renly’s tone tweaks a nerve. “And you’re an expert on what a man looks like when he wants me, are you?” 

Renly’s jaw clenches as he straightens his posture and accepts two glasses of champagne from a passing tray. When the waiter leaves, he hands Margaery a glass and eyes her as if she’s bumped her head. 

_There he is_ , Margaery thinks. _The real Renly Baratheon._

“I know our arrangement creates… _challenges_ for you, but need I remind you that this is what you signed up for? Discreetly scratch your itches however you see fit, but you will _not_ embarrass me by batting your eyelashes at one of Robert’s up jumped stray loads. Are we clear, _my love_?” 

Always mindful of their audience, Margaery steps into her husband’s hard body and pretends to straighten his tie. “Need I remind _you_ where your campaign contributions come from?” she asks sweetly, batting Chanel-enhanced eyelashes. “Or how many Arbor, Oldtown, and Highgarden votes have helped you pass legislation?” 

With a wicked grin, she arches up to plant her lips just below Renly’s ear. “My brother may love you, but Tyrell roots run deeper than even the infamous Stag cock can reach. Watch your tone, _my love_. Or you might find your bed as empty as mine.” 

* * *

“What in the Maiden’s name is Selwyn Tarth’s daughter wearing?” 

Sansa Stark-Baratheon came to her mother’s table to escape her husband and in-laws.

With her mother-in-law avoiding the public in the aftermath of her messy divorce from Robert, Sansa thought the night would be easier. Sure, she’d have to deal with Joffrey and his Uncle Tyrion bickering all night, but she was used to that.

Having Tyrion around made Joff less likely to snap at _her._

Plus, with Tywin present, everyone would be on their best behavior. 

Until Tywin sat at a table with Westeros's top business leaders, leaving his pride of sniping lions to their own devices. 

Kevan did his best, as he always did, to keep up appearances by pulling the cooler heads at the table into small talk. He asked Sansa if she’d heard rumors of Petyr Baelish purchasing the network that airs her _Good Morning_ show; asked Tommen about his business school applications and if he'd spoken to Myrcella since she relocated to Dorne. 

Eventually, however, the Lannisters went… Lannister. 

Following the Royal Family’s entrance, which required everyone to stay at their seats, Tyrion ordered the wait staff to bring a bottle of scotch to the table, apparently needing to catch up after staying dry for 15 minutes. Not to be outdone, Joffrey did the same, ordering a better-aged blend of the same brand.

Reading the mood, Tommen made a quick exit, claiming the Farman girl he brought as a date saw one of her schoolmates and wanted to say “hello.” 

Soon, nephew and uncle were in their cups and all Kevan and Sansa could do was sit back and watch. 

“Would you look at that?” Tyrion pointed toward the bar at Edric Storm conversing with Renly and Margaery Baratheon. “Bobby must have saved all his Baratheon genes for his byblows. That height. The jawline. Your brother’s a real chip off the old block, Joff.” 

Joff’s eyes turned into cold jade knives. “That _mutt_ ,” he said pointedly, “is no brother of mine. And you’re one to talk, _Imp_. There’s nothing Lannister about you except your bank account.” 

“Don’t forget the wit, Nephew. I believe I got all my father's cunning since your mother obviously had so little to spare for you.” His mismatched eyes twinkled with delight as he swirled the scotch in his tumbler. “Tell me. How are things at the King's Landing office? You're going on your third year in the red? Maybe you should talk to your brother Edric about how to actually _make_ money; I hear he’s very good at it.” 

Sansa held her breath. Business at Lannister Oil & Gas Company was a soft spot for Joff. Profits had taken a downturn since he took over in King’s Landing and the industry rags wondered how much longer the family would let him “play work” at one of the company’s main offices. 

She ran a tentative hand over Joff’s knee under the table, hoping to calm her husband’s rising temper.

He pushed her away. 

“Well, Uncle. If I can’t get it right, I’m sure Grandfather will let you waddle out to King’s Landing to clean up my mess. That’s your job, isn’t it? Shoveling all the shit no one else wants to deal with? I’d drink and whore my days away, too if I was the family stablehand.” 

Joffrey rose from the table, discreetly sliding a small vial into his pants pocket. The rest of the table might have missed it, but Sansa didn’t. 

“Matter of fact, Imp,” he said, pushing his empty chair into place. “I’m going to drop a couple of logs if you want to wipe my ass for me.” 

Once Joffrey left the table, Sansa used the opportunity to excuse herself, which is how she ended up listening to her mother’s idle chatter.

Didn’t Queen Rhaella look healthy? What diet was Princess Elia on that she could still pour into such a form-fitting gown at her age? Wasn’t Princess Rhaenys’ baby bump just adorable? Princess Danaerys’ teal dress, cut straight down to her navel with pockets, was “too avant-garde” for Catelyn’s taste. 

She wished Bran could have made it, but he and his girlfriend Meera Reed were backpacking through the mountains beyond the Wall this weekend. And wasn’t it a shame Arya didn’t show up tonight? “Some nonsense about not celebrating the excesses of the rich while people were starving” that Catelyn wished she’d “hurry up and grow out of.” Never mind that Arya was a woman grown and an accomplished activist with a strong following throughout the Republic. 

Cateyln Tully-Stark did not raise activists. She raised respectable members of Westeros society who married into rich families and took on distinguished careers. 

Like Robb. And Sansa. 

Looking up from the napkin she’d been toying with, Sansa searches the crowd to see what fashion crime Brienne Tarth has committed and spots her across the room chatting with Sarella Sand in a black tux with wide-legged pants and a wrap-style jacket that ties at the waist. Her makeup is understated but emphasizes big, bright blue eyes and her blond hair is styled in a wavy updo. 

Unconventional, but not bad at all. “I think she looks rather stylish.” 

“In my day, a woman showing up to the Annual Gala in a tuxedo was unheard of. Her father must be beside himself.” Catelyn takes another glance around the room. “And can you believe Varya Snyder has the nerve to show up here? Since when are trashy gossip columnists invited to the Gala?” 

Remembering what awaits her at the Lannister table, Sansa humors her mother’s thirst for gossip. “Since her rich, foreign husband can afford to sponsor the event. I’m sure I saw Illyrio Mopatis rubbing elbows at the High Council table.” 

“Excuse me, ladies,” a tuxedoed waiter interrupts them. “I have a Lemon Drop for you,” he says, placing a martini glass in front of Sansa. “And a glass of Arbor Gold for you,” he says to Catelyn. “‘For the prettiest women in the room,’ courtesy of the gentleman standing at the North Bar.” 

Across the room, Petyr Baelish raises his glass in salute. Her mother’s face tightens, pushing the wine glass just out of her reach. “Please thank Mr. Baelish for his generosity,” she says with cool courtesy. 

_That’s strange._ Having grown up with Petyr, her mother is usually warmer toward the man. Sansa’s always found him a bit smarmy, but accepts the drink and returns his salute nonetheless. “Rumor is, he could be my new boss soon,” she says. 

“What do you mean?” her mother asks.

“Kevan says he wants to buy WKLN.” 

“What _isn’t_ Petyr trying to buy these days?” 

_Good question._

No one knows _where_ Petyr’s money came from, but in the last ten years, his Mockingbird Enterprises has had a finger in every pot in the Republic: tech, politics, retail, sports franchises. And now, apparently, television. She’d have to watch her back if he purchased the station. She’s heard stories about what goes on with women employed at Mockingbird.

Sansa’s phone buzzes with a text. She doesn’t even have to wonder who it’s from. "This is Joffrey. Let me get back to our table.” 

Her mother nods, knowing better than to ask why her husband can’t come to greet her as a normal son-in-law would. “Can’t be without you for more than a few moments, hmm? Find me again before you two head out tonight?” 

Forcing a smile on her face, Sansa stands. “I will. Talk to you later, Mum.” 

Walking back across the ballroom, she opens Joff’s text:

_“GET YOUR ASS BACK OVER HERE. NOW.”_

She sighs, knocking back the last of her Lemon Drop. She’s in for a long night. 

* * *

Jon Snow hates tuxedos.

And formal events. And ballrooms full of rich assholes with nothing better to do but talk shit about each other. And following stupid rules like standing when the Royal Family enters the room. 

Before his mother was named Foreign Affairs Minister, Jon Snow could have joined Obara in blowing off the Republic’s Annual Gala, but now that she’s back in Westeros, at the head of government, no less, his conscience wouldn’t let him sit tonight out. 

Unfortunately, this means letting his mother get to know his co-workers. And away from the suits, stuffy government officials, and reporters, Lyanna Stark is… _a lot_. 

“So let me get this straight,” she says, angling a half-full champagne flute at Nymeria Sand. “My son works with gorgeous, brilliant women like you and your sister _every day_ and hasn’t asked _any_ of you out? Am I hearing this right, Son?” 

Jon groans, leaning back in his seat with his glass of whiskey. 

The last person she needs to have this conversation with is Nymeria; who he _had_ seen briefly when he first moved to Oldtown and was working through his grief over Ygritte. Calling Nymeria’s late-night visits to his loft wearing expensive lingerie brands he’d never heard of “dating,” was a stretch, but they were sure as shit restorative. In the end, they parted as mates; she went back to her dating pool of international models and trust fund babies and he set himself on Oldtown’s bachelorettes. 

If any woman from his past is bold enough to look a mother in the eye and say “I nailed your son,” it’s Nymeria Sand. 

“Minister Stark, I think you provided such a strong example of a brilliant, beautiful woman that Jon only treats us as colleagues and friends.” Nymeria counters, sounding completely unlike herself. 

_Thank the gods._

“Aye, but that won’t get me any grandbabies any time soon,” his mother says. “Please tell me you have friends you can set him up with?”

Nym rubs her chin. “I know one or two blondes that could be interested. Jon has a type. Think Princess Danaerys.” 

_Nymeria Sand giveth. Nymeria Sand taketh away._

He does not have a “thing” for Princess Danaerys. She's hot, yes. Petite and curved with that platinum blonde hair? If she was a regular girl in an Oldtown bar, he’d give her a go. But she’s a bloody royal.

With interesting thoughts on the Essosi slave trade that he happens to agree with, having spent his early childhood bouncing around Essos with his mother. 

A strange look falls over his mother’s face as her gray eyes pin his. “What about the Princess?” 

“Nothing,” Jon insists. “Nym’s just—”

“Your son talks a big game about 'royal pricks,' but he’s always captivated by her television appearances and speeches. If you want grandbabies, I recommend introducing him to a cute blonde with a humanitarian streak.” 

“I see,” his mother says. Then, as if the last few seconds didn’t happen, she winks at him. “I’ll have to check the Foreign Affairs department for blondes, then.” Standing, she smooths silvery-gray lace on her gown.

“Everything ok, Mum?” 

“I’m fine, dear. Just heading back to the Prime Minister’s table. It was a pleasure to meet you, Nymeria. Please tell your sister I’m sorry I missed her and look forward to meeting her soon.” 

Standing, Nymeria shakes his mother’s hand. “The pleasure was all mine, Minister Stark. I’ll be sure to give Sarella your regards.” 

She waits for his mother to walk away before giving him a mischievous smirk. “She’s _fun_.” 

“Aye. Big fun. I’m sure you’d love to listen to your father ask why you weren’t fucking me.” 

“Oberyn wouldn’t ask,” Nymeria deadpans. “A; I’m too good for you and b…” she drops her voice to a whisper, “I’m pretty sure he already knows we fucked.” 

Right. That sandy-haired asshole who was at their table earlier, Oberyn Martell’s consigliere, keeps a close eye on the Sand Snakes. Jon wishes he’d known that _before_ he fucked Nymeria. 

“Speaking of Snakes and Wolves…” Nymeria looks around. “Isn’t it strange how Sarella disappeared shortly after your cousin stopped by our table? And now _he_ isn’t anywhere to be found either?” 

Since they worked the Targaryen case a month ago, Nymeria swears that Robb and Sarella’s on-and-off thing is back “on.” He noticed an extra swing in Sarella’s step when she returned to the office the morning after she caught them watching Prince Viserys’s sex tape, but Jon learned long ago to stay out of Robb and Sarella’s business unless one of them invited him in. 

“How about this Snake and this Wolf mind our own business?” 

“Hmmph,” Nymeria pouts. “You’re no fun.” 

Feeling nature call, Jon rises from his seat and winks. “Nym, we both know I’m the most fun you’ve ever had.” 

She raises a contrary finger in the air. “That honor belongs to a pretty girl in Skyreach,” she corrects. “But I’ll give you top five. Top two cock, for sure.” 

Shaking his head, he strolls toward the bathroom, wondering what the bloody hell was up with his mother back there. 

He’s just zipped his fly when a massive man in a black suit with an earpiece enters the restroom and closes the door behind him. “Royal Guard,” he says in a gruff voice. “You need to stay here while we clear the hall for a member of the Royal Family.” 

_Gods forbid someone catch a Targaryen on the way to take a piss._

It must be one of the princesses. If it was a prince, they would have shooed Jon out of the men’s room. 

As he washes his hands he feels the Royal Guard watching him closely. Too closely. “Is there a problem, officer?” Jon asks. 

The bullish man eyes him carefully. “I’ve seen you somewhere before. Where?” 

Never one to forget a face, Jon immediately remembers. “Sphinx Consultants. You picked up a package for Prince Rhaegar last month.” 

“That’s right,” the guard says with a nod. “What’s your name, son?” 

Jon folds his arms. “Does the Crown need to know?” 

Realization dawns on the man’s face. “You’re Lyanna Stark’s boy, aren’t you?” 

_Fuck_. 

Jon likes flying under the radar. That’s why he doesn’t mind his bastard surname. And why he left the North, where everyone either knew him as one of the Stark clan or the detective who fell in love with an informant and got her killed. With his mother overseas, no one below the Neck gave a shit about him and after losing Ygritte, that was exactly what he’d needed. 

_So much for that._

“Aye. Who’s asking?” 

The man shakes his head. “Just an old friend. Good to see her back on this side of the Narrow Sea. She’s smarter than half those twats at the Capitol.” 

Jon nods, making a mental note to have Sam track down names and photos of the Royal Guard officers when he returns to the office. “On that, we agree.” 

When the hall is cleared, Jon walks out and catches a glimpse of platinum hair, porcelain skin, and a teal gown in the middle of four, towering black-suited guards. 

_Princess Danaerys._

Jon shakes his head. She _would_ be the cause of all that fuss. 

* * *

_“You’re the fixer. Use your clever head to figure out where I can fuck you tonight.”_

Here. At the Republic’s Annual Gala. With his fiancee present. 

Sarella Sand should be appalled. Insulted. 

But the fact is that she's missed him. In the weeks since their night in White Harbor, she hasn't stopped thinking about him. Not just the sex—phenomenal as it was, but his sincere declaration. 

_"I'll never ask you for anything, but I'll come whenever you call."_

It meant more than the "I love yous" they never exchanged. Robb knew her well enough to know that she needs more than sweet words; she speaks in deliverables, so he gave her one. 

Which, in turn, made her want to give _him_ whatever he wanted. Especially when he asked in his deep Northern brogue with that stormy look in his eyes. 

Getting between his solid body and a hard surface is all Sarella can think of as she works the ballroom floor. 

“So I’ll see you at this year’s Women’s League brunch?” Margaery Tyrell asks over flutes of champagne. “It’s supposed to be a surprise, but I’m _this_ close to convincing Grandmother to give the keynote.” 

“That sounds like a can’t-miss event,” Sarella replies with genuine excitement. “Always a pleasure to hear from the former Prime Minister. How is she these days?” 

“Working on her golf game, penning her next memoir, fussing at the pundits on the evening news. She’s never been good at sitting still.” 

“Cousin!” Sarella coos at Princess Rhaenys, who’s dressed in a striking gold gown that showcases her recently-announced pregnancy. “You’re positively radiant.” 

Next to the Princess, her husband, the Prince Consort Terrance Celtigar, drapes a hand over her belly. “Isn't she? She grows more beautiful by the day.” 

“Yes,” Rhaenys’ smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m especially gorgeous when I’m vomiting my breakfast and turning green at the smell of coffee.” 

“Sarella Sand!” A low tenor calls from behind her. 

She turns around to the smirking face of Arys Oakhart, Oldtown’s District Attorney, holding a glass of what she guesses is his drink of choice, vodka tonic. “Shopping for your next wealthy ne’er do well to keep out of trouble?” 

“Spoken like a man looking to fix his office’s shoddy prosecution record.” She nods at his white tuxedo jacket. “Couldn’t help yourself, could you?” 

“Oh, this?” he runs a hand over his lapel. “Just wearing the white cloak of justice like I always do, Ms. Sand. You’ll see it up close and personal soon enough.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Since we’re in a friendly environment, I’ll give you a friendly warning,” he says. “Tell your client, Chataya Zo, that she might want to lawyer-up.” 

That brings Sarella down to earth. Chataya Zo has had her on retainer for the last two and a half years since Sarella pitched her services by revealing that she knew about Chataya’s secret son with Hoster Tully. 

“Why would I do that, Arys? Ms. Zo runs a perfectly legal escort business.” 

“That she should have kept in King’s Landing,” Arys counters. “We play by different rules in Oldtown.” 

Sarella’s eye catches Brienne Tarth across the room. “Do what you must, Counselor. I’m sure justice will win out in the end. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see someone I need to catch up with.” 

She hasn’t seen Brienne since the woman quit her short-lived job at Sphinx Consultants. She showed up three days after their confrontation, just as Sarella asked, and said that while she appreciated the opportunity, she’d decided “fixing” wasn’t for her. Sarella heard through the grapevine that she was working as an adjunct professor at the Citadel and applying to law school. 

Judging by her attire, a Caroline Herrara tuxedo that makes her look like a glamazon, Brienne keeps in touch with at least one member of the Sphinx Consultants team. 

“I see my sister’s coaxed you into high fashion,” Sarella says in greeting, waiting for Brienne to turn around. 

“Sarella!” she replies, blinking bright, shy eyes. “It’s good to see you. You look amazing as always.” 

“So do you. That tuxedo is perfect.” 

“Yes, well, thank you. Nymeria caught me coming out of a boutique downtown on my lunch break a couple of weeks ago and swept me off to _Lynesse’s_ for an afternoon.” Tucking hair behind her ear, she looks at Sarella earnestly. “How are things?” 

“Busy, but good,” Sarella nods. “And you? I hear you’re at my alma mater?” 

“Just part-time while I apply to law school. It’s… a good fit. Though, if you don’t mind my saying so, Citadel students are snootier than I’m used to. We were more down-to-earth at the Military Academy.” 

Sarella stares at Brienne for a moment. She’s trying to sound nonchalant but Sarella senses there’s more behind her words. _I bet she’s bored to tears_ , she thinks. “Well, if you get tired of teaching pompous little assholes, there’s still a place for you at Sphinx Consultants. You know that, right?” 

“May I… May I ask why?” Brienne tilts her head. “You’re all obviously so… and I’m… I guess I just don’t see how I was an asset to you.” 

“You’re smarter than you realize, Brienne. And most places you go, be it a law firm or academia, will pick up on that and exploit you. Just like Renly Baratheon did. I believe you can reach your full potential with us. We’ll challenge you, and everything you think you know about the world, but…” Sarella takes Brienne’s hand. “We’ll _never_ hold you back.” 

Brienne opens her mouth to reply, but Sarella holds up a hand. “No pressure. We’re here whenever you’re ready.” 

“Thank you, Sarella. I’ll keep that in mind.” 

The elevator ride down to the 20th floor is a welcome respite from the endless chatter and clinking glass of the ballroom upstairs. Sarella can finally hear herself think, hear the tiny voice in the back of her mind wondering if she’s really going to do this. 

She hears Robb's voice in her head, saying _"Every part of me that matters is yours."_

Yes. She is doing this. 

She’s checking her makeup in the restroom’s mirror when Robb walks in, closing the door behind him with a quiet “click.” 

Their eyes lock in the mirror’s reflection. 

“Hi,” she breathes. 

“Hi.” 

Everything else is a blur. 

Biting kisses and frenzied touches. Swishing satin and torn lace. 

The soft squish of his fingers finding her arousal and teasing out more. Fast. Hard. His jacket fluttering to the floor and her nails trailing up the back of his starched white shirt. His fist in her hair and this thumb on her clit, pulling and circling. His handkerchief in her mouth to muffle her moans and his whispered demands for her to come if she wants to feel his cock in her. 

The white static of her first orgasm. 

The sharp hiss of his opened zipper. 

Her ass on the counter and her leg over his shoulder. 

Then, he’s in her. Hard, long, and deep as he grips her ankle where she wears his Valyrian steel chain and delivers stroke after punishing stroke until lightning cracks down her spine and pleasure spirals through her thighs and hips, finding its release in her pulsing apex where her body greedily accepts his over and over. With his head tossed back and Adam’s apple bobbing, Robb chases his climax; his broad, muscular body seizing between her quaking thighs when it catches him. 

When it’s over, they remain locked together, their breaths harmonizing into a single rhythmic pant as they come back down to earth. 

“What in the fuck have you done to me, woman?” Robb mumbles into her neck, his Northern accent rumbling low and rough. 

“Seven hells.” She blinks. Once, twice. Then opens hands that were clutching his shoulders and slides her palms down his chest. “I wish I knew. But this… was reckless.” 

“I know.” 

“And stupid.” 

“I know. But if you think it won’t happen again, Sarella, you’re lying to yourself.” 

She sighs, reaching down to dislodge their bodies. “I know.” 

As they dress, she grabs his lipstick-stained monogrammed handkerchief off the counter and stuffs it into her clutch, making a note to throw it away in the ladies' room upstairs. “If she asks, you gave your handkerchief to a woman who sneezed. You’ve got another…” she checks her watch, “...two minutes to get to the elevator before the security feeds come back on.” 

Robb stares at her, brows furrowed in confusion. “How did you...?” 

She gives him a wry grin. “I’m a fixer. I fixed it.” 

With a sullen nod, Robb puts his palm on the door but turns back before opening it. “Goodnight, Sarella.” 

“Goodnight, Councilman.” 

In truth, there are another ten minutes until the hotel security feeds turn back on, but she needed extra time to pull her shit together. Her reflection says “freshly fucked,” the tousled hair, the smeared lipstick, the dark corners of her eyes, where tears—had he really fucked her hard enough to make her eyes water?—smudged her eyeliner. Sarella reapplies her face slowly, mindful that she should look like the end of an evening and not the beginning of one when she steps back into the ballroom. 

Satisfied, she walks into the hall. 

Where an annoyingly, _irritatingly_ familiar figure leans his tall, tuxedoed body against the wall, sky blue eyes shining and a dimpled smile lighting up his chiseled, tanned face. 

_Son of a bitch_. 

“I have to give it to you, ‘Rella,” he muses, addressing her by an old nickname. “If you’re going to fuck a betrothed elected official at a high society event, finding a spot with zero foot traffic and cutting the security feeds is the way to go. How many rare comic books are you buying for Samwell to cover up your dirty deeds?” 

“What the fuck are you doing here, Daemon?” 

Daemon Sand, her father’s longtime protege and consigliere, shrugs sinewy shoulders and scratches his lightly-bearded jaw, regarding her with amusement. Black ink on his forearm peeks out of his rolled-up shirt sleeve, teasing the tattoo that extends from his wrist to his elbow: “BASTARD” in large, medieval-style letters. 

Truer words were never written. 

“My job." His voice is light and mocking. "What you really want to know is how I found you here. My men have eyes on the building. When the feed on this floor went dead and _you_ got on the elevator, I got curious. Hearing you moan and come all over Robb Stark’s cock was an interesting, albeit uncomfortable surprise.” 

If he expects her to shrink in embarrassment, he needs to think again. She shrinks for no man. Least of all, Oberyn’s lackey. 

Sarella narrows her eyes. “When you send my father your notes tonight, make sure he knows I came twice.” She spins on her heel and stalks toward the elevator, pounding the call button in hopes it arrives before Daemon catches up to her. 

It does not. 

She’s trapped in the elevator with him, her nostrils full of the woodsy, tobacco-vanilla scent of Robb lingering on her clothes and Daemon’s spicy sandalwood fragrance. Too many memories flood her mind. The last twenty minutes with Robb, rushed and frantic. And a lifetime ago, slow afternoons in a poolside cabana at Sunspear... 

Sarella blinks hard, pushing it all out of her mind. 

“You know,” Daemon says as the elevator makes its slow climb to the ballroom. “You’re better off walking in with me than by yourself. Anyone paying attention saw Stark come back alone. If you walk in alone, it won’t be hard to put two and two together. Walk in with me? Looks like Stark went out for a smoke and you were just catching up with one of your roguish countrymen.” 

She rolls her eyes; he’s absolutely right. Even with all the precautions she took with finding the perfect location and eliminating the threat of camera footage, she can't be too careful. In Westeros, someone is _always_ watching. As much as she loathes the idea of letting Daemon escort her anywhere, protecting her and Robb's careers comes first.

“Fine.” 

Daemon steps closer, standing at her side, crowding her senses with his body heat and the scent of his cologne. “Stark looked a little weak in the knees when he walked out of that restroom. I see you haven’t lost your touch.” 

“Shut up, Daemon.” 

“You were good back when you barely knew what you were doing. I bet you’re amazing now that you’ve learned a few tricks. You were always such an eager student.” 

Sarella takes a restorative breath as the elevator chimes its arrival on the 45th floor. “I hope you enjoyed that show downstairs. Because that’s as close you’ll get to finding out.” With her head held high, she nods toward the ballroom. “Shall we?” 

“After you, ‘Rella,” Daemon offers. “And you never know. I’ve heard a girl never forgets her first.”

**Author's Note:**

> So we've got some Scandal deep cuts: 
> 
> \- Arys Oakheart as this universe's "David Rosen."  
> \- The Robb/Sarella sex scene is heavily influenced by Fitz/Liv in the closet after Cyrus' daughters' christening.  
> \- Annnnnnd we've met our universe's "Jake Ballard." ;-)


End file.
